I was working on my story about the sexy Mexican Army, crouching in the mountains across the border, fighting narcs and drug runners while pumping their guns with erotic force. One of the reasons I want to work on this story first is because I don’t mind screwing it up. I have some stories in my head, my precious babies, and I don’t want to blow them up in a destructive rain of fleshy chunks and rubble. I want to be careful with these stories and craft them with love and talent. Thus, the first five or so stories will have to be test runs—guinea pigs that I don’t mind becoming cannor fodder for the masses of people who will (hopefully) read, and possibly excoriate my work.
I felt the need to justify that because this orgy of sexy naked men in the foothills of traffikers and danger does seem a little romance novel-esque, a bit silly and over board— one might say campy perhaps—and, well, to repeat, it makes me feel the need to justify working on such a story that I have a slight lack of respect for.
That said, I was trying to find a place for my armed muscled men, and I noticed that every time I looked at foreign city names, I read something into the name. For example: Sinaloa. I don’t know where this is (except I think its in Mexico or South America), but it sounds seductively dirty on the tongue, the kinds of dirt that taste like dark organic sugar. Sinaloa: Sing it lower, Sin a bit lower, Moan low.
Next was Nogales and my mind went slightly to the side of silly: No gals, or No gal is here.
Then was Michoacana which had no translation in my head, but makes my head swim with visions of sexy lady hips, swirling slowly in sparkling rose colored skirts. My mind almost wants to translate it into Mi Juana, or my sexy lady, but when I write it or say it, it doesn’t flow out loud — only in my head.
Matamoros has the dangerous feel of sex, lust and blood. Kill the morals is what my mind comes up with, a slender rapier thrust straight through the belly of prudence, skewering puritanism.
Tamaulipas makes me think of a dark latin lady dressed in a deep purple bikini top with a fringed skirt revealing one thigh. She lays on a hammock, framed by a tropical background and bathed in steamy tropical sounds. Tucked above one ear is an exotic purple flower with white streaks, cast against her black, shining flowing locks. Her eyes are soft and relaxed. I imagine Tamaulipas a relaxed, exotic, tropical place, holding Tama’s lips…both sets waiting for caress.
Calderon is abrupt. It pulls me out of the dark green foliage into a cauldron. It says to me from the mist rising from its edge: Call her home, call her home, and I feel a story there, of loss and longing along a hard iron edge.
I move down my list to Nuevo Leon and I mark it. It is the first name I come upon that makes me feel not of a lady but of the musky testosterone of men. New lion, proud, strong, large lions. Proud, strong, loins. Then I realize Matamoros might also be such a place, and I mark it as well.
Fort Hancock pops up unexpectedly. I think its in the US, but the name is explicit. A fort full of men, hand on cock. I mark it, but feel unsure.
Sonora is out for my story, but it draws me like a siren song. In fact it’s letters and flow feel as if siren and song has merged. She is sonorous, a slightly uglier word in English than Sonora. It is a she, because Sonora sounds like senora. Sonora is shaded, waiting for your hand to glide down her shoulder. When you touch her she will emerge softly from the shadows, embracing you with her song, and you will never know that her strong firm hand (it seems so delicate and hesitant), guided you to this magical hypnosis.
I move to Torreon. Tor-re- own, I sound out in my head. It sounds like a slow burning anger. Tore one on. Alcohol? Letting go in a simmering wild burning madness. Tearing on the condom, I must, my lust pushes me forward. I mark it as a possible location.
I move to Tijuana and instantly mark it off. Not only does it rhyme with marijuana, which I think I have decided I will not have my horny army get high on toking pot, it makes me think of Tequila. None of those things make me think of rough hard edged men in the mountains. I do wonder if it would be a great metaphor for slipping from women to men, if they were sucking maryjane while fucking each other.
Yuma just sounds like yummy, and for some reason my brain tells me it means mountain in some language, or sounds like a word that means mountain in a language.
Reynose is next and my mind goes silly, so I mark it off. Ray no say! Ray no say! Reindeer nose. No, no good for this story.
I’m on a roll and I look abroad at Yemen, Al-shabaab and Hezbollah next. Yemen (visually) rhymes with semen which I like for this story, but it would mean I have to change the backdrop to guerillas fighting in the harsh cracked lands of the Middle East. Would they be Jihadi’s or would they be freedom fighters?
I don’t even know if Al-shabaab is a place, and I wonder if simply writing this will get someone angry enough to call for decapitation for insulting Islam, especially if I write that this name makes me think of a barbed penis wrapped in a velvet tongue.
And Hezbollah, in my current state of mind, sounds to me like an orgasmic gasp, a word you cry out when winded by intense passion, writhing through your whole body, as cock slips deep into vagina. I hope this raises no one’s ire, but I realize that writing about sex and ethnicity can stoke some fires. My best defense is that I am small and unknown, and these meandering thoughts are unlikely to go viral. It will be the challenge that I climb, like every other writer and blogger, to keep up my presence, share my thoughts, write my books, and build and keep my readership.
What did I decide? I took the four places that I marked, and next I will Google them just to be sure I can find an isolated enough setting to let the Mexicles** mix.
*I would like to write a romance novel one day, but now my goal is to practice and learn from stepping on literary landmines.
** Mexican Testicles.
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